


A Man From Kansas

by severinne



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Hotel Sex, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-03
Updated: 2009-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severinne/pseuds/severinne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't know how to feel in 2006 anymore. Set sometime in that nebulous seven minutes of 2006 we get in 2.08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man From Kansas

Sam leaned against the doorjamb, unconsciously cradling his aching body, and peered into the dimly lit en-suite bath. The black tiled room was tight-walled, its doorway so narrow that even Sam’s slight frame was enough to close the walls that much more, making the room’s sole occupant visibly tense, muscles flexing across his broad, smooth back. Dark, ponderous eyes lifted to the mirror, met Sam’s gaze with a look that wasn’t inviting as such, but did nothing to send him away.

Biting at his lower lip, Sam slipped into the room with an arrogance that belied the countless hours he had spent on his knees at this stranger’s pleasure. The mirror revealed the evidence on Sam’s body in a sly glance at their shared reflection – purpling bites spread like scattershot over his neck and shoulders, bruises rising above the sagging waistband of trousers that were now too large for his coma-starved body. He let his eyes drift away from the reflection and settle instead on the fully real, fully naked body of the nameless man leaning over the sink, braced on heavily built arms that had held Sam down so perfectly. Slowly, with a fondness already growing distant, Sam traced his fingertips over a firm bicep, following the etched blue lines of a skydiving bird tattooed there and that got the man’s attention, made him turn away from his half-hearted shaving preparations to look properly at Sam.

‘What’s up, babe?’ he drawled hoarsely, the coarse American intonations still a shock to Sam’s ear. ‘Haven’t had enough?’

‘Not nearly enough,’ Sam returned smoothly. He kneaded his thumb down hard into the indentation of teeth interrupting the tattoo, remembering the brutal retribution that bite had elicited, savouring the hiss of pain rushing through the man’s clenched teeth that revealed themselves in a wolfish grin.

‘Kinky son of a bitch.’ The man clattered his razor onto the granite countertop: an old-fashioned folding blade with a yellowing bone handle. Preoccupied with the sight of that antiquated, masculine thing on the sleek hotel vanity, Sam didn’t see the large hand lifting, flinched when it dragged down his bare chest to his abdomen. ‘Did I say you could put these back on?’ the man murmured, dipping hard-skinned fingertips behind the loose waistband of Sam’s trousers.

Sam squirmed slightly, wordlessly inviting that calloused hand to push deeper, to discover his lack of underpants and his hardening cock beneath the once-fine wool trousers. ‘No, you didn’t.’ He glanced up deliberately through lowered eyelashes. ‘You gonna punish me for it?’

He held his breath, waited for the backlash to unleash itself but nothing sparked in the stranger’s tired gaze. The fingers brushing over his bruised hip went still and slowly withdrew. Frowning distractedly, his erstwhile lover glanced back into the mirror and scratched at the day-old growth of beard covering his jaw.

Sam seethed bitterly. He knew it hadn’t been subtle but subtle shouldn’t be necessary, not after everything they had already done… ‘Bloody coward,’ he muttered spitefully, wondering why he was even bothering with this moody bastard.

Said bastard didn’t respond to the baiting, barely mustered a derisive sneer while spraying a cloud of shaving foam into his large palm. A vaguely familiar scent made Sam’s nostrils flare, made his cock twitch. His eyes widened at the logo on the aerosol can. Old Spice.

Sam craved many things, things he could never have again if that odious DI Drake woman knew what she was talking about. He craved the taste of greasy bacon butties, the touch of polyester against his skin. Those were parts of the desire that had driven him back to that seedy club, the one he had discovered on his last prescribed ‘vacation’ to London and Drake’s dubious support: he needed the stench of fag smoke in windowless rooms, of sweat and _men_ , that abrasive scent of CID that still scrapped the back of his throat late at night whenever he managed to find frustrated release in the palm of his hand.

Utterly devoid of women and cleanliness, the dank basement club had held traces of that odour, of stubbornness and sex, but it was muted by discretion, by shame. There wasn’t smell and touch enough in those hidden alcoves to cut through the numb sense of loss, until last night and this cocksure American traveler who had sloped towards Sam’s isolated table and circled his chair like a predator while stroking the bulge of his own insistent arousal through snug, rough-worn jeans.

In his denim and his boots he had looked like some sort of cowboy, like something out of Hunt’s movie posters, and maybe that was close enough. The man had taunted him, dared him to touch and Sam had done one better, had snared him by his wide belt and dragged the flat of his tongue over the tight denim, insensate to onlookers but flayed to life by the coarse fabric beneath his tongue, the fierce musk of the man’s cock seeping into his brain and twisting a whimper out of his parched throat.

Everything from there to now had blurred into the rushing push and pull from that club to this man’s hotel room. All of Sam’s memories of their sex merged together into a desperate onslaught of sensation, not nearly hard or rough enough but there had been moments – the occasional backhanded slap, the deliciously slow pressure of fingers around his throat – when Sam had remembered, in fleeting flickers of light, what it felt like to be alive.

He blinked back to the chilled present with its en-suite bath and the stranger studying his own reflection as though uncertain of his need for a long overdue shave. His folding razor was still open and untouched on the counter. Sam inhaled shakily, moistened his lips.

‘Here, let me…’ Sam snaked an arm around him and caught up the razor in nimble fingers that tightened when the man captured his wrist in a crushing grip. He dragged Sam around, pinned him to the granite edge of the countertop with hips and hands and narrowed eyes.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ His hold and the growl in his voice would have been intimidating if not for the cold sluice of shaving foam sliding over Sam’s skin. Impulsively, Sam writhed against his hands, just enough to spread the slippery white mess that much further, feeling not unlike a dog rubbing off on his master’s scent.

‘What’s wrong?’ he murmured, tilting his head back in a challenge, or an invitation. ‘Think I might hurt you?’

‘I think you’re a quick, sneaky bastard,’ he snarled back accusingly. ‘Wouldn’t put it past you.’

Sam huffed a breathless laugh. ‘That’s flattering, really it is, but…’ he gestured out the bathroom door towards his cane with a wave that followed its journey through the hotel room, from the corner by the door to its present place discarded near the foot of the bed, ‘I’m really quite helpless,’ he finished in a lowered tone. He could feel the corner of his mouth quirking uncontrollably upward despite the darkening sneer on the man’s face.

‘Maybe so,’ he murmured, plucking the razor from Sam’s slack fingers. ‘Or maybe you’re just a spoiled, dirty brat who needs to be taught a lesson.’ Sam sucked in a sharp, anticipatory breath and the man laughed harshly. ‘Except you might enjoy it too much. That where the rest of these came from?’ The flat of the razor blade smoothed over the knotted scar tissue on Sam’s hip, one of many souvenirs from that car on the Mancunian Way, the surgeries while he slept. Sam shivered, cringing away from this skin that wasn’t his.

‘I already told you,’ he snapped, ‘I had an accident, and I woke up in-‘

‘ _Don’t._ ’ The man tightened his grip, spun them again and slammed Sam back into the opposite wall. Something like fear tensed across his face before anger surged in its place. ‘Don’t feed me that bullshit about that fucking coma, and don’t even _think_ of asking me what goddamn year it is, got it?’ His hands yanked down Sam’s trousers; even with the button and zip fastened they fell so easily. ‘It’s 2006, and I didn’t bring you back here to talk crazy shit,’ he spat, manhandling Sam like a rag doll, ‘I brought you here to _fuck_.’

The man pushed him around to face the wall, allowing Sam to conceal his savage triumph and gain leverage enough to throw a sharp elbow backward. His grin widened at the man’s pained bark, at the bruising hands that trapped his arms and yanked them upward above his head, pinning his wrists to the tiled wall with one hand. Panting hard, Sam let his head drop forward, cooling his fevered brow as his newfound captor kneaded a heavy hand down his trembling body, cruelly bypassing his throbbing cock and gripping hard around his right thigh. His legs were kicked wider apart, as wide as the trousers around his ankles would allow, making way for the hard, demanding length of the man thrusting up between his buttocks.

Sam held his breath, knew that he was still open and wet from their earlier games but it wasn’t preparation enough for the sudden invasion of the larger man’s cock filling him again in a single, brutal thrust that flattened him into the wall. ‘Oh god,’ he gasped, eyes squeezing shut, ‘oh, yes… _Guv_ …’

‘Fuck, not again…’ the stranger growled, clenching tight to Sam’s body. The hand on his thigh vanished, and Sam whined in protest until something soft and thick muffled his cries; steely fingers clamped hard over the hand towel in his mouth and snapped his head backwards. ‘Shut up, just _shut up_ , you dumb fuck…’ He groaned deep into Sam’s ear, hips rolling hard into Sam’s body, exertion turning his words to hot, humid breath. ‘Yeah, that’s better… oh, yeah, you greedy little slut, exactly how you like it, isn’t it? Like it rough, just like _this_ , don’t you, you… oh, you dirty fucking _whore_ , should’ve gagged you before, so much better with your fucking mouth shut…’

Sam thrashed hard, trying to turn his head aside even as he helplessly ground his hips into the wall, his neglected cock sliding slick with pre-come. The voice, the accent was wrong…

‘What, don’t like that?’ A breathless chuckle brushed his neck, delicate compared to the tightening of the hands restraining him; his wrist-bones chaffed together, he couldn’t breathe… ‘Course you like it, I know what gets you off, you filthy little bitch, know you’re gonna come so hard from this, yeah, go on, _fuck_ yeah, come on…’

It was over quickly, one last vicious thrust, a deep vibrating groan and it was the snarl of teeth piercing the nape of his neck that dragged Sam over the edge with a muffled cry, coming hard over the cold wall. He slumped bonelessly in the wake of his orgasm, held up only by the man’s body pressing him to the wall, gasping for grateful breath as the towel was removed from his mouth. The air entering his lungs felt vital, rich, so wonderfully _alive_.

Hands and body abandoned him slowly, though the stranger’s cock withdrew far too quickly, making Sam cringe with discomfort. He clung to the wall, eyes closed, unprepared for the sudden clutch of hands grabbing at his hair and arm, shoving him out the door. Disoriented, Sam spilled across the floor, blinking upward at the imposing shape of the man’s naked, sweat-slicked body filling the narrow doorframe, his face unreadable.

‘Get dressed, and get out.’ His voice was flat and gruff. ‘I’m taking a shower, and I want you gone when I’m done.’ Sam watched him back away, turn his head as he lowered his voice. ‘Need to wash your smell away, you crazy bastard.’

The door clicked shut, leaving Sam alone with the remainder of the hotel room: his empty suit scattered on the floor, the scent of Old Spice and sex sticky on his skin.

With a long, sated sigh, he dropped his head back to the ugly threadbare carpet and grinned at the stained ceiling.

It almost felt like home.


End file.
